From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

You picked out mother’s dress. It was black.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

One moment of silence.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.

One moment of silence.

“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

One moment of silence.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

Sipping
swallowing
licking

cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?

You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.

One moment of silence.

Facing a drab mirror,
rub your eyes
like the squares of an empty market.

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
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